odds and ends (that tie all the loose ends)
by Lil'MissGoodyTwoShoes
Summary: So, Sherlock Holmes thought he had her all figured out, did he? Well, even Molly Hooper has her secrets. (In other words, twelve things Sherlock Holmes didn't know about Molly Hooper.)
1. Chapter 1

_**Summary: **__So, Sherlock Holmes thought he had her all figured out, did he? Well, even Molly Hooper has her secrets._

**_Disclaimer:_**_ I do not own the genius that is Sherlock Holmes._

* * *

><p>Sherlock Holmes was certain that he knew all there was to know about Molly Hooper. In fact, he was so sure of himself, he would bet his life on it.<p>

(But then again, he was always willing to risk his life in order to prove his cleverness.)

Doctor Hooper really wasn't anything remarkable. She'd had a pretty normal childhood, an uneventful, typical uni experience, and was now employed by an ordinary London hospital. She was definitely a cat person, too, (couldn't even stand the sight of dogs), loved the occasional glass of wine, a good book, and thick (hideous), jumpers.

However, one day (a drab, dreary day), Molly Hooper surprised him. And he wasn't quite sure how to feel about that.

...

The rain was trickling down the sides of the brick buildings, landing on the soaked pavement in sizable puddles. There were large crowds of unhappy Englishmen scuttling to and fro, bright colored umbrellas in hand, and plenty of birds squawking in protest. But buried in the bowels of St. Bart's, Molly was unaware of the bleak weather.

She'd had a long day - Bart's head pathologist had been plenty preoccupied with twelve autopsies, and three times that many write-ups. Not to mention that fact that she'd ruined her favorite lab coat.

(Well, it wasn't officially ruined, but she felt safe in saying that when your topmost layer was splattered with the contents of a dead man's bladder, you wouldn't want to wear it again anytime soon.)

When Sherlock had arrived earlier that day, John hot on his heels, the famous detective had informed her she was to put the dead Mr. Wilkes at the top of her list, and to "cut him open as soon as possible." So, here she was, sewing the last of this man's flabby chest together, preparing her report for the consultant that was sure to return.

Mere minutes later, as if on cue, the tranquility of the morgue was disrupted by the entrance of only one man.

(She was a little surprised John and Greg weren't with him. After all, the more the merrier.)

"Molly, what do you have for me? Killed by asphyxiation, I presume?"

"Hello, Sherlock. So lovely to see you again. Yes, he was strangled."

"Spectacular! Thank you, Molly."

Said woman smiled at the conclusion of their short exchange, having been happy to help. Finally done for the day, Molly set to work stripping of her grimy gloves, and grubby scrubs; she turned her back to Sherlock, who was standing a few feet away, and stripped off the sea foam green top, revealing a tiny bit of flesh right below the hem of her undershirt. But just as she pulled the article of clothing over her head, Molly failed to properly hear the question shot at her.

After finishing tugging the garment over her head, Molly turned to the only other occupant in the room, "Hmmm?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and looked up at her, opening his mouth to berate her. However, he suddenly stopped short, transfixed by the sight of the woman in front of him - or rather by the tiny bit of ink visible just above the waistline of her slacks.

"Is that a tattoo?"

Molly was caught off guard by the question, having thought he would be asking something else about the corpse.

"What? Where?"

"Right here." Sherlock took a step closer and brushed the pad of his thumb across the fine, black line scrawled across her skin.

"Yeah," Molly blushed, "I'd always wanted one and I finally got it a couple years ago."

She peeked at Sherlock, who seemed to be deep in thought.

"What is is, exactly?"

The pathologist grinned and took a step back.

"Dear me, Mr. Holmes, you know the anatomy of the human body. You tell me."

(And perhaps another time he would.)

* * *

><p><em><strong>I was planning on making a few chapters for the story. What do you think?<strong>_


	2. Chapter 2

_**Summary: **Molly Hooper does not like clutter._

_**Disclaimer:** I do not own the genius that is Sherlock Holmes._

* * *

><p>Molly Hooper does not like clutter. So much so that eleven years ago, she was diagnosed with a mild case of obsessive-compulsive disorder; very few people knew about her OCD. Scratch that, <em>no one<em> knew about it.

(Not even her mother.)

And as far as she was concerned, no one _needed_ to know about her condition.

...

On an early Monday morning, Sherlock Holmes sat stock-still at his usual station, examining some sort of unknown substance.

(Nothing new.)

He went about his usual routine: no words were exchanged, no comments made, Molly was left undisturbed. However, this time, every time he got up to retrieve something, the intruder would leave the cabinet door open. And it was starting to get to her! In fact, as soon as he'd left the offending area, she'd shuffle softly over and quickly close the door.

(Of course, she didn't want to make a scene.)

Finally, several hours and numerous cabinets later, she had reached her limit.

"Sherlock!"

(She all but screeched the man's name in her frustration.)

The startled detective looked up from his work and glowered at her.

"What? I am quite busy, Molly."

"I don't care how bloody busy you are, you cannot keep leaving these cabinet doors open!"

Sherlock just rolled his eyes, annoyed at having been interrupted for such antics.

"No, I'm serious, Sherlock! I will kick you out of my morgue!"

At this, he looked straight at her, bewildered, and answered, "Fine. I will no longer leave the doors open, so long as you don't make me leave."

(Not that he thought she could _actually_ make him leave, but better safe than sorry.)

"Thank you," Molly sighed, relieved.

...

A few hours later, Sherlock had finally gotten what he'd come for and was ready to leave. He'd tucked away all his supplies and was wrapping himself in the folds of his Belstaff.

"I'll see you tomorrow, Molly," he informed the sleepy pathologist sitting across from him.

"You don't know that," she murmured back, her strained eyes closed, head still resting on her forearms.

"As slow as it's been lately, the criminal population cannot remain dormant forever. Surely _someone_ will be murdered tomorrow."

"Be careful what you wish for," Molly reminded him, having propped herself up on the metallic counter.

He chuckled in reply, pushing the heavy doors open. Right as he did so though, he stopped and turned around to face to her.

"Oh, and you might want to schedule an appointment with a therapist."

Molly blinked in surprise, "Whatever for?"

"It might help with your OCD."


	3. Chapter 3

_**Summary:** Molly Hooper hated dogs. But she didn't like cats all that much either._

_**Disclaimer: **I do not own the genius that is Sherlock Holmes._

* * *

><p>Molly Hooper hated dogs. Most everyone who had ever met her knew that. So, it came as no surprise that Sherlock Holmes was aware of the fact she disliked all members of the canine family. However, it did surprise her that he thought she <em>liked<em> cats. Sure she owned one, but that didn't mean she was overly fond of Toby. In fact, Toby wasn't even hers. He was her deceased mother's.

(Perhaps that's why she'd never liked cats.)

It was a wonder she'd even accepted him - even before her death, Molly had wanted absolutely nothing to do with her mother. But in the end, Molly decided she couldn't just let the poor creature starve.

And so now, Molly Hooper lived with a fat tabby.

...

Sherlock Holmes was very familiar with Molly Hooper's flat. After all, he'd visited many times whether it'd been for a case or an experiment. He'd also lived there for several months, working arduously to bring down Moriarty's network.

Inevitably, he'd examined and cataloged every last detail of the pathologist's humble abode, learning bits and pieces about his colleague. And of course Molly knew the deductions were being made, but he was wise enough not to bring it up, so she was happy to comply.

But, there was one small artifact Sherlock had never been able to figure out though. And that was the old, leather collar of a dog.

(Most likely a German Shepherd if the size and long hairs stuck in the stitching were anything to go by.)

The detective knew better than to inquire about the keepsake, for it was obviously sentimental.

(Very much so as it turned out.)

But not even Sherlock Holmes could deny his curiosity its cravings for very long.

...

"Molly?"

"Hmmm?"

Sherlock had dropped by her flat three hours ago, desperate for help writing his best man speech. As it turned out, she wasn't much help. So, Molly had retired to the sofa, a glass of wine in one hand, a sappy novel in the other. Sherlock meanwhile had positioned himself on her sunken chair, his laptop perched precariously on his knee.

The comfortable silence was abruptly interrupted when a certain detective couldn't suppress his question any longer.

"Why is there an old dog collar hidden in your sock drawer?"

(Indeed, the very best things come from said drawer, don't they?)

The woman in question looked up from her leather-bound book so fast, he feared several of her cervical vertebrae might snap in half.

"Why were you rifling through my things, Sherlock!? You didn't have permission to do so!"

"It was months ago, when I was sheltering here, when I first saw it. I thought it might be a touchy subject, so I left it alone."

"You're right," she began.

(Sherlock snorted. Of course he was right, he always was.)

"It is a touchy subject. But while we're talking about it, tell me what _you_ think it is, _Sherlock Holmes._"

Said detective was somewhat taken aback by her tone, but proceeded none the less.

"Well, it's old, about 13 years I'd say, judging by the faded lettering on the ID and the severe damage to the leather. Obviously from your childhood. A childhood pet, I'd presume. A German Shepherd for sure, the long hairs embedded the stitching a sure sign."

He drew breath and looked over at the woman sitting opposite him.

"Is that it?" she asked.

Sherlock gave her an odd look, ""Is that it?' What do you mean?"

"I mean, is that it? That's all the world's only consulting detective can deduce from my old memoir?"

Molly put her weathered edition down and pulled her petite glasses from her face.

"Sherlock, that was the collar of my dog, Blackbart. Rather my dad's dog. He'd always loved dogs."

The narrator's dark eyes seemed to glaze as she dusted of the details shoved into the darkest corners of her mind.

"My mum had always loved cats. So, I grew up with both. But Blackbart was my favorite. Had such lovely fur, too. A prizewinner, in fact."

Sherlock sat patiently, studying the way her lips curled into the smallest of smiles.

"And then my dad died. And soon after so did that lovely German Shepherd. Such a waste."

Molly put a halt to her storytelling and glanced over at her guest.

"I've hated dogs ever since. They remind me too much of him."

(And he longed to tell her of Redbeard. Unfortunately, he just couldn't bury his beloved dog quite yet.)


End file.
